


Maybe He's Born With It. Maybe It's Tequila.

by lousy_science



Series: The Wardrobe Malfunction 'verse [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drag Queens, Gyms, Halloween, Homophobic Language, M/M, Martial Arts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:32:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not out at his gym. But everyone's a little gay on Halloween, right? </p><p>An AU inspired by Warrior and binge watching RuPaul's Drag Race in more or less equal measures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe He's Born With It. Maybe It's Tequila.

It was Colin, of all people, who suggested having a Halloween party at the gym. When he told John about it, he worried that the kid had sustained a head injury. “I’m not laughing at you. Col, it’s just that Bruce is not a party guy, no matter what you read in the papers.”

Bruce was their leader, trainer, role model, boss, occasional nightmare, and entirely humorless authority figure. Bruce was about as fun as the set of one-handed push-ups in the rain that had been a particular highlight of today's workout.

But John was proud of Colin for having the idea in the first place. Not like the kid had that many experiences of parties, John figured, so he approached Bruce with the idea. To both John and Colin’s astonishment, he briskly agreed. They stared at each other in wonder as their coach walked off.

"It's because of Selina. She's softening him up."

John looked over at Colin. "Have you met Ms. Selina Kyle? Soft is not the word."

"No, but," Colin chewed his lip. "Bruce is different since they started their - whatever it is. Like, he's eased up on workouts."

John said, "Yeah, but when Bruce eases up, Bane just doubles down."

Colin sighed. Bane made Bruce look like Mary Poppins when it came to training. He didn’t work with any of them regularly, only stepping in when running Wayne Industries took Bruce out of town. Bane’s drills were the stuff of legend. Painful, miserable, unrelenting legend.

Bane was the only other trainer Bruce let operate in his gym. He worked with a smaller group of fighters than Bruce, all of them MMA, most of them semi-pro or pro. They were all recent immigrants working to make a living, while none of Bruce’s team fought for money. The two groups sparred, but most of the younger members from Bruce’s side of the gym were freaked out by Bane and his crew.

While Bruce was his own special brand of intense, John thought that the difference between him and Bane was that everyone knew the Bruce Wayne story before they’d even met him. They knew how his parents had been killed, and the years of rage and destruction faithfully recorded by the tabloids, followed by his quest for meaning in martial arts, and how he’d devoted his life to helping others find their own strength through physical and mental discipline. Bruce was a face on the cover of a magazine, rich, powerful, famous; the reformed bad-boy turned do-gooder.

But Bane was a complete mystery. No one even knew where he was from, or how Bruce met him. There were plenty of rumors - John’s favorite was that Bane had been the only person to ever beat Bruce, in a three-day long fight in a Tibetan monastery, and that Bruce was so impressed he later broke Bane out of prison - because that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. It was a theory their resident geek Tim Drake had breathlessly related, and John gave him endless shit about it.

“I’m not saying it’s all true, but - ” Tim would start, and John would cut him off.

“You have to stop believing this crap just because it’s online.”

“My source is impeccable!”

“Your source is a janky message board for wannabe gangsters trying to sell each other Russian steroids.”

One day in the locker room, Colin told John that he was pretty sure Bane didn't even know his name.

"Of course he knows it, dude." John had reassured him. "He just focuses on his own fighters. They’ve all got matches coming up soon, they’re hustling. Anyway, be grateful, do you really want to be in Barsad's position? Or Trogg? Bane trains them like racehorses. Besides, Bane probably feels that it would be disrespectful to give direct orders to someone that Bruce is training unless he’s been instructed to."

Colin looked unconvinced. "Yeah, I guess."

"Also - Tom, back me up here - Bane thinks he's better than us mere mortals."

Tom “No relation” Blake laughed dryly. He and Bane got on each other's nerves. Bane's usual ice cold indifference towards anyone in the dojo who wasn't Bruce cracked a little whenever Tom challenged him to tussle. John didn't know all the facts, but you didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to guess that they had history. Being nosy as fuck by profession, John had done a little digging in police databases. From what little he could work out, they had worked together on a private military operation one time. John figured it hadn't worked out for everyone.

John hadn't told anyone about what he’d found out. Unlike Tim, he didn’t blab his deductions all over the place.

Bane and Tom weren’t the only fighters John had done some investigative work on. After Bruce introduced the two of them, John had found out what he could about Colin Wilkes.

The kid was the newest team member, and wore his youth heavily. John felt insanely protective towards him. Colin was another foster kid like John, a victim of violence who was only now learning how to use his natural strengths as a fighter to protect himself and train his mind. That was the whole philosophy behind Bruce's fight training: strength came from discipline, discipline from strength. His program was created for kids like Colin who desperately needed the attention and support.

John looked over at where the gangly redhead was standing, enjoying the rare smile on his face. Colin ate up all of the Bane theories Tim liked to tell in their post-workout shooting the shit sessions. John thought he understood. He remembered how he recognized something of himself in Bruce all those years ago, and he could see that there was something similar between Bane and Colin. Some sort of heightened defense mechanism that develops when someone feels truly alone. Then there were the scars Colin had all over his body and face. They were the old kind. Thinking about them made John want to punch something.

Bane had scarring, too, most noticeably the thick ridges that split his lips and cheeks. When John thought about them, he felt something else. Something quite different from fear or hero-worship.

Derailing that train of thought quickly, he turned to the person who’d just walked into the reception area.

"Katana, you up for a Halloween party?"

Tatsu Yamashiro was one of the two women who regularly trained with them, nicknamed after her weapon of choice. John could watch her run sword drills for hours. She always looked terrifying, an inferno with steel, but when she wasn't fighting she was chilled and sarcastic. Colin worshiped her, like a peasant worships the active volcano which rises above his village. John hoped that in time he’d absorb some of her negative capacity for fucks given.

"As long as none of you lazy a-holes do some ninja costume appropriating shit, consider me invited."

John snorted. "Don't let Damian hear you. He thinks he is a goddamn ninja, and would dress up like that just to piss you off."

Katana made like she was brushing dust off her shoulder. "Whatever, Damian can act up all he likes, I won't be giving him candy."

Colin turned back to John. “And you can definitely make it? You won’t be working?”

“Yes, and nah,” John slapped him on the back. “My social life isn’t that interesting, and my beat partner kicked up a fuss about doing the shift - he wants to spend it with his kid for once.”

This was a white lie. John had been invited to half a dozen Halloween parties, but he’d not committed to any of them. It had crept up on him this year, and between work, training with Bruce, and night school, John hadn’t felt up to partying. Even for the one holiday that was basically Gay Christmas.

But Colin had taken the initiative to organize something. John would have his back. He sent a quick message around the Batcave WhatsApp group inviting everyone along and promised Colin that he’d pick up some decorations downtown.   
  


\---

Officially, it was The Wayne Foundation Physical Training and Rehabilitation Centre. Everyone started calling it the Batcave, because it was dark, damp, and Bruce was clearly batshit. The name started back in the day, when Bruce had recently returned to Gotham and paparazzi were gagging for a shot of the city’s most eligible bachelor. They never thought to poke their cameras into the basement of an old meat packing plant in the Narrows.

John had started going in the Batcave’s second year. Bruce had spotted him at St. Swithins, the perpetually pissed-off kid with a fake smile on his face. John would never forget the two minute conversation they’d had outside Father Reilly’s office.

“I hear that you have one of the highest counts of demerit marks here. And one of the best GPAs.” Bruce’s voice hadn’t sounded angry. It was a grown-up’s tone, reasonable and concerned. But John recognized the fury in his eyes. It was obvious, and at the same time, it wasn’t directed at him. He realized that Bruce Wayne, this weird rich guy that they were meant to be polite to, really wanted to be setting things on fire. John knew exactly how that felt.

Not that he let on. It was never a good idea to let authority figures know that you’d figured out their motivation. He shrugged instead, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I’m not too crazy about some of the rules here.”

Wayne clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward. “Do you get in many fights?”

“I’m better at getting out of them.”

“Yes.” Bruce nodded. “So I hear.”

Bruce had spent a decade travelling the world learning all kinds of fighting styles, and he’d returned home wanting to use what he’d learned to train the less privileged. Of course, everyone was less privileged than Bruce Wayne. But he sought out his students carefully, starting with his fellow orphans and looking for the ones who shared a deep and ever-present desire to punch the entire world in the face. When John first walked into the Batcave, he met outsiders and weirdos from all across Gotham. They were all angry in their bones, and they were trying to work on it by beating each other up in a pit in the ground.

John had never felt so at home in his life.

\---

News about the party travelled fast. The two biggest questions were - would a bunch of tough, stubborn fighters actually wear fancy dress (John declared that they wouldn’t be let in otherwise), and whether Bane’s crew would show up for it.

"Does Barsad even know what Halloween is?"

Batcave veteran Helena Bertinelli rolled her eyes. "Cue the story about how in his country, he was so poor, noble and untouched by American crassness he was busy wrestling bears every morning before getting in the harvest."

"Not bears, Helena, though I was hunting in the forest before I was seven years old."

Barsad was a sneaky son of a bitch, even in a room full of sneaks. Helena acted like she wasn't rattled by his sudden appearance in the reception area. She threw up a talk-to-the-hand.

"To feed your entire family, freezing cold winter, _blah blah_ struggle _blah blah_ , heard it all before."

Barsad cruised a little closer to her. As usual, he was wearing threadbare military surplus gear that hung off his lean frame. Helena was dressed sharp, because Ms. Bertinelli-if-you're-nasty did not do casual, even after two hours of aikido.

"Spoilt child of privilege." Barsad said.

"Shabby goon." Helena fired back.

John looked over to Tom, who was leaning against the wall, his whole body radiating tension. Whenever Barsad and Helena flirted, which was roughly equal to the amount of times they were in the same building together, Tom got pissed. But not, John noted, pissed enough to ask her out himself.

There was an unofficial rule against hooking up in the gym. Bruce was rumoured to have told someone, “No dating. Only justice.” That hadn’t held Barbara and Dick back, of course, but John didn’t think ten-foot walls coated in plutonium and moats filled with sharks equipped with laser eye cannons would have kept those two apart for long. Not that John blamed Barbara; he’d seen Dick shirtless in the locker room. The thirst was real.

John had never really come out at the Batcave. It wasn’t fear so much as pragmatism. Best to leave that part of his life at the door, he told himself, and focus on cultivating some of that discipline Bruce spent so much time banging into their heads.

All of John’s cultivation fell to pieces when Bane had first shown up.

John stuck Bane in a special compartment, one marked Do Not Touch. He had never found himself so consistently annoyed by one person before. Bruce was a pain in the ass sometimes, sure, but John understood Bruce, could see that though on one side Bruce was a billionaire businessman who did ultimate fighting on the side like some macho hobby, that wasn't what ran through his bones. There was loss there, hurt, anger, and an ingrained habit of lying that was imprinted so strongly on his face that, for John, it was like looking into a mirror.

But Bane was a closed book. John spent weeks trying to get a read on him. Everything he noticed only threw up more questions. The obvious, daunting intelligence. How he didn't sprawl like so many big men did, but held himself with an elegance John thought of as tidy. The utter absence of fear in everything he did. John knew, watching him move in a fight sequence, that when Bane fought, he fought with no holds barred. And that pissed John off, for reasons he couldn’t articulate.

John had given himself six weeks to get over Bane. It had been a year. In weak moments, John would get distracted and think about his thick neck, his bounding stride, how he said John's name (which had happened all of twice), the military history books he kept in his office. John watched the news and found himself guessing what Bane would think of each headline. He'd come out of movies or sports games and fall into a daydream, wondering what Bane would make of it, how a conversation between them about it would go. All this took up John’s mental real estate, even though the idea of Bane watching a movie felt outlandish, the same way a kid can't imagine their teacher having a life outside the classroom.

And sex. He thought about Bane and sex a lot. Sometimes when John was having sex with another person, and that was just bad manners.

Once he spent Sunday sweating the problem out over a five-hour run. He came to the conclusion that admiration from afar wasn't pathetic, it was noble, and John could use his stupid, misguided affection as fuel. Bane had many qualities worth aspiring to, like discipline and authority. John would channel his crush in healthy ways. He went to practice Tuesday night feeling free.

Then Bane showed up wearing a black t-shirt a size too small. All of John’s noble intentions were instantly overridden by his balls.

\---

Between the two of them, Colin and John had advanced training in four types of martial arts, and could bench press a grown man. That didn’t make assembling fifteen glow-in-the-dark skeletons any easier.

“Screw this. Let’s just throw the bones around, it’ll look just as good.” John said.

Colin looked mildly pained, but nodded. They’d set up a trestle table for snacks and soda, the Batcave being a sober space, and strung up fake cobwebs and strings of jack o'lantern lights. John stuck up the rubber bats he’d found in Chinatown on the ceiling with masking tape. It had been three years since Bruce had moved them out of the original Batcave and into a custom-built gym on top of a Wayne Foundation community center. As well as being full of high-end workout gear and four times the space, it was was modern, light, and airy. To Bruce’s dismay, everyone kept calling it the Batcave.

“Do you think it’s going to be OK?” Colin fretted as he carefully arranged a fluorescent skull and crossbones on top of the dumbbell rack.

“It’s going to be great. C’mon, Col, we’re throwing a party for a bunch of uptight, obsessive nerds who need to punch each other in order to manage their feelings. How busy do you think their social calendars are?” John waved his arms around the newly spookified space. “Give them warm cola and all the gummi bears they can eat, it’ll be the most excitement they’ve seen all year.”

Colin smiled, and adjusted the wreath of black roses hanging off the neck of a grappling dummy. “What’s your costume going to be?”

John’s brain went blank. “Uh, not sure yet. Probably pick something up at the dollar store later. What about you?”

Colin’s reply was quick. “A mask. One that covers me here,” he held a hand to his collarbone, “and up.”

The scarring on his neck and cheeks wasn’t nearly as noticeable as it had been since Selina Kyle had begun dragging a stunned Colin to her dermatologist for weekly laser treatments. Colin would never have asked for help, so John had taken Selina aside and given her a head’s up. Selina, like John, was a former foster kid, and while she claimed to care more about her animal sanctuary than “mere humans”, John knew she’d come through for Colin.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t still painfully self-conscious about how he looked. John wished, again, that he’d take more inspiration from Bane’s bulletproof self-confidence. On paper, Colin was a bonafide badass. But he was also nineteen, had never thrown a party before, and wanted to wear a mask that covered his face up completely.

Once they locked up and left, John walked home with Colin’s desire to hide away on his mind.

Unlocking his apartment door, he took off his jacket and headed for his wardrobe. Pushing the clothes hangers aside, he looked at the outfit he kept at the back. Since he’d turned eighteen and left the orphanage, John had only worn one type of costume for Halloween. It’d gotten more refined over time. John had learned a lot about proportions, tailoring, and necklines since his first ever drag attempt, a thrift store velveteen dress with a sailor collar that his club kid friends had called “Olive Oyl’s crack nightmare.”

John compartmentalized the ever-loving fuck out of his life. That was just survival 101. He’d picked it up early, the art of dividing different aspects of himself into carefully-divided segments. You kept the officially-issued firearms over there, your hand wraps over there, and your fuck-me pumps all the way the hell over there.

But Halloween was one of those rare times you could blur the edges. Everyone was a little gay on Halloween.

He held up his LBD to his chest and looked in the mirror appraisingly. It was a simple, strappy number, very 90s, and when he turned out in it he got snaps and cries of “Linda Evangelista!”

If he camped it up with a bigger wig than he’d worn last year, he could still work it without looking totally busted. He pulled out his phone and messaged his friend Austynne. That was some priceless advice he’d not yet passed on to Colin: It never hurt to have a part-time Cher impersonator in your contacts.

\---

John had to hustle to get to the party in time. He’d left the precinct late and dashed to Austynne’s to grab the wig (“Her name is Angela and she’s not as cheap as she looks, so _be_ _careful_.”) When he got to the Batcave he was thrilled to see Colin mask-less, though he didn’t quite get the striped t-shirt and shorts. “You look great. What are you?”

Katana appeared at his side in a buttoned-up dress, carefully adjusting her braids over her shoulders. “I wanted to be Wednesday Addams. So he’s Pugsley.”

John wanted to hug her. She gave him a tiny smile, as if she knew just how brilliant she was.

 

Colin looked dazed at John's six-inch heels. "How do you even?"

Showing off a little, John quick-stepped and clicked his heels. "It's like anything. Practice. Core strength." Shoulder bounce. "Swan-like grace and fabulousness."

Katana nodded in appreciation, then instructed Colin to help her set up the snacks table. It was covered in soda, cookies, and various other permutations of corn syrup that were definitely not on their diet plans. Neither were the giant bags of candy that Helena lugged in.

"I always buy in bulk," she told Katana as she handed them over. "For my students."

"And for you?" John asked.

"Are you kidding, Blake? Only Swiss chocolate, imported, seventy-five percent cocoa. Do I look like I eat dime store candy? Now, twirl and let me get a load of you."

John did a little circle and threw some hip into it. Helena lifted her eyebrow, giving John the once-over, then slowly snapped him out.

"Not bad, Jo-Jo. Now come over here and let mama fix your eyeliner."

"I'm not wearing any eyeliner."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, girl, that's what I need to fix. Sit your ass down. Colin! My makeup bag is in my locker - go fetch. And be careful, the contents are worth more than your life."

\---

In the end, practically everyone showed up, even Bruce. He was dressed as Zorro. "My childhood hero."

"Really? I would've thought it was Bruce Lee or General Patton or someone." said Floyd, which was big talk for a man dressed up as pirate, complete with parrot. Damian, who was appropriately dressed as Damien from the Omen, ignored them all to scroll through his phone and mutter about the more important parties he was going to after this one.

A couple of Bane’s fighters had dressed up as luchadors. Trogg had come as a cowboy, and seemed incredibly happy to be there, chatting enthusiastically with Tim about their favorite conspiracy theories. Barsad hadn’t worn anything different, but his presence had clearly galvanized Tom, who was dressed up as some sort of Safari park ranger. He threw Barsad a dark look as he stormed in and made straight for Helena, loudly asking if he could have this dance.

Helena, who was meant to be a character from La Boheme but looked more like Lucrezia Borgia, accepted, and to widespread amazement the two of them waltzed around the gym to the tinny pop songs playing from Katana’s Spotify selection. Selina dragged Bruce along to follow them, while Katana ignored Damian’s demand to dance with him and pulled Colin into a shambling two-step around the floor. Barsad extended his arm to John, who quickly learned that although Barsad was an astonishingly good fighter, he had two left feet and a sense of rhythm best described as “unorthodox”. He was so busy trying to keep his heels from being scuffed that he missed Bane’s entrance.

Barsad had decided to dip him, and John whipped his hair back to make it look far better than it felt. Twisting his spine, on the uplift he saw Bane and almost lost his balance. Bane was in some sort of giant shearling coat, and had a claw on his face. Barsad spun John to the right, obscuring his view. He recovered and pivoted back for another look. The claw was a mask, dark and mechanical. Bruce was talking to him, and Bane was replying, so obviously he could talk in it. John couldn’t make out what he was saying, only the rich, rumbling tones of his voice.

The J-pop song they’d been throwing shapes to finally ended, and John gave Barsad a quick and insincere thank you before making a beeline for the bathroom. It was cooler in there, and he could check his tights for runs and catch his breath.

Tim walked in and smiled to John. “Hey! Did you see Bane?”

John nodded like it was nothing. “What’s that thing on his face, anyway?”

Looking in the mirror, Tim wet a paper towel in the sink and used it to smudge away some of the wear on his skeleton makeup. “Apparently it’s a mask used in hospitals for post-op pain relief. Did you know Bane had major surgery when he got to Gotham? Barsad said something about it, the mask is a souvenir from that. You know, I had thought that something like that explained the back scars, remember I told you…”

Tim was going on when Floyd walked in. “Word is we’re blowing this popsicle stand. Tim, you kids were going to some movie, right?”

“Yeah! The Midnight Madness showing of Rocky Horror! John, you wanna come? You’re already in costume.”

Floyd said, “Sure, John, you can do that. The grown-ups are going to a bar. That’s except for Bruce, who needs to be in Tokyo in the morning.”

Tim complained about the use of the phrase “grown-ups” from “stupid pirates with stupid mustaches on their dumb faces” while John asked Floyd, “Has anyone ever seen Bruce drunk?”

“Not in this universe’s timeline. You coming? We’re hitting that dive down on Fourteenth Street.”

\---

The place was packed by the time they got there. Bruce had given John some funds from petty cash to get everyone a few rounds, so he squashed himself at the bar between Barney the Dinosaur and a female viking warrior. Trogg helped him get the drinks over to their table. He was still animated and upbeat, telling John how much fun he was having. Floyd took his double whiskey from him and promised Trogg many more nights out, which made Bane - who had come with them, probably to monitor this very sort of behaviour - look at Trogg’s enthusiastic reaction with concern. John had gone drinking with Floyd Lawton enough times to know that Bane was right to worry.

John swigged his beer and got talking to Anatoli, the taciturn Russian who was the star fighter on Bane’s team, about his time in a military command stationed in the Urals. Sometime after the third round this turned into a passionate conversation about tabletop wargames, and two guys dressed as Picard and Riker got involved, bought them tequila shots, and invited them both to their regular gaming night. Anatoli was more interested than John, who excused himself from the haze of testosterone to get some fresh air.

It was a crisp, cool night, and John leaned against a wall, careful of Angela’s curls. His feet stung, and the elastic of his tights was cutting into his skin. Not for the first time, John admired anyone who wore heels every day. It was not for the weak.

The crowd milled around him, smokers and Uber-hailers parting ways to let through a hysterically weeping Commedia dell'arte character being marched forcefully along by a redhead in a leaf-covered bodysuit who snapped at her, “Don’t you _dare_ cry over that asshole!”

In the shuffle, John felt a large body move to lean against him. As the crowd moved on, they didn’t, and a voice barked directly into his ear.

“What do we have here?”

John turned around in time to get the distinctly wasted features of the guy whose hand was on his thigh. He backed up instinctively and collided with someone else standing right behind him.

There were four of them. In seconds they had gathered around him like a support group for Dudes Who Bro Too Much.

“Fucking...fuck is that shit on your head? That your real hair?”

“Bitch looks tight. Tell me, you tight baby?”

John was shoved forward and he wavered slightly on his heels. He could break all of these guys’ arms in under a minute, but he just wanted them to knock it off. No matter how justified it was, assaulting citizens while off-duty would lead to disciplinary meetings and a metric fuckton of paperwork. “C’mon, guys, how about you let me get by?”

“Listen to the freak,”

“Fag-ass ho!”

“...make her scream for real - ”

A shadow fell across the wall. A deep voice boomed out, "That is no way to treat a lady."

Bane was nothing to fuck with in standard mode, but now he had notched up his intimidation level by about a thousand. The dickhead collective took him in and stepped back en masse.

 

"Hey, hey, no worries, we're just joking around."

"Haha yeah! No harm done, right?" Another goon chipped in, his voice going squeaky. Their hands were suddenly in the air. John could swear he heard their testicles retreat into their bodies. Bane looked at John, who adjusted a fallen shoulder strap and nodded. At Bane’s dismissive wave they scuttled away like cockroaches.

Bane's face was still and serious. He’d taken the mask off at some point. With singular gentleness, he stepped forward and tucked John's hand around his arm. John was not the swooning type, but this display of gallantry would buckle even the strongest pair of knees. He could feel the blood rush to his cheeks as he walked forward with dainty steps.

“I was planning to leave. Would you like a lift home?” Bane’s voice was quiet and earnest.

"Thank you." John stumbled into a little curtsey. It seemed only appropriate. His arm remained wedged in under Bane’s, and the toughened leather of his coat felt as soft as skin where they were touching.

\---

Overhead, cars roared past. Drunks yelled at each other. Graffiti bloomed over the concrete walls. The smell of piss filled the air. The streetlights shone on them as they leaned on a road barrier. John’s hips shifted right, tucking him in the natural hollow made by Bane’s stance.

“That was really kind of you. I could’ve dealt with them but being a cop makes it hard, you know?”

“Their behaviour was inexcusable.”

 _Fucking A it was_ , thought John. Arm in arm, they walked over to an enormous motorcycle. Bane opened the storage compartment at the back and pulled out a spare helmet, which John managed to slide on over the wig with some haste, eager to get Bane’s machine between his legs. It was probably the only action he was going to get tonight, and John was going to make it worth getting runs in his tights for.

The leather of Bane’s coat was scarred and battered. As the city whipped past them, John pushed his fingers into the fleecy lining greedily, pressing into the curve of Bane’s back. The engine purred beneath them like a satisfied tiger. It was more intoxicating than the Jägerbomb John had misguidedly drunk earlier that evening, and he nearly lost a heel when the bike swung left down a side street.

In a typical display of Bane’s uncanny knowledge of everything, a few minutes later he pulled up outside John’s apartment block.

John took his time getting off the bike. He yanked at his dress to get it to lie flat again, then carefully freed his head from the helmet with minimal disturbance to his wig and false eyelashes. He held out the helmet to Bane who was busy attaching a fearsome and frankly sexy metal chain to the bike.

The helmet was exchanged for Bane’s arm, again, and John found himself being stared at with something like concern.

“May I walk you to your door? It would please me to see you home safely.”

“Um. Yeah.” _Mind your manners, Master Blake_ , his inner Alfred Pennyworth reminded him. “Yes, please. Thanks.”

The stilettos were making his Achilles tendons scream with pain up on every step to the fifth floor, but John didn’t let it show, holding on to Bane’s arm as carefully as if it were one of those Fendi clutches of Selina’s that he secretly coveted.

Fishing out his house keys as they walked up to his door, John stayed close to Bane. The landing was dark, and gave him an excuse to pretend as if he couldn’t quite work out which key was which.

Flushed with chivalry and tequila and Chanel liquid eyeliner, John leaned forward. He made it look cute, with a little teeter as if he was stumbling into Bane's arms. Bane probably saw right through it. John didn't care. He wasn’t trying to showing off his exceptional balance or prove how tough he was. For once, he just wanted to make the most of having perfect eye makeup and great legs.

An arm reached around his waist to steady him. It was the extra encouragement John needed to brush his lips against Bane’s jawline. With all the clarity that alcohol and lust provide, John noticed how smooth his skin was, how fastidiously Bane must have shaved in the morning. Arching his back a little, John dropped his voice to a velvet hum and whispered “Thank you again,” into Bane’s surprisingly delicate ear.

A peck on the cheek - who was John kidding? He was aiming for that ruined, twisted, perfect mouth.

The arms wrapped a touch tighter around John’s back, pressing him into Bane’s chest. He kept his volume at a whisper. "You know what's fun about this? I'm not really me. I'm someone else right now. Prettier, more fabulous, more carefree.”

Bane didn’t say anything out loud, but made a rumbling noise of interest that John could feel reverberate in his chest. That was a good sign. He continued, “If you come in with me tonight, you don't have to be you. I mean, we wouldn't be our usual selves. That's the thing about Halloween. You can wear a mask."

Bane spoke up at that. "I don't like masks."

John pulled back a little to look him in the eyes. “You had one on tonight.”

“It reminded me how much I dislike the experience.”

But Bane was still leaning in close. His arms moved up to hold on to John’s shoulders, as if John was about to float away. John spread his fingers through the fur collar of Bane’s coat and gripped back just as hard."So you know how good it can feel to take one off," John continued. "You know good it can feel not to be responsible all the time. Not being people who battle each other every day. Not a cop. Not a - whatever the hell you are when you're not training."

Bane spoke up. "Securities consultant."

"Does that mean you’re a bouncer?"

"I create strategic plans for protecting organisational infrastructure."

That threw John for a second, but he manned up and batted his eyelashes ferociously. Keys in hand, he pulled away from Bane to unlock the door. “See me to bed?”

Bane picked John up and opened the door. John wrapped his arms around his neck as he was carried over his threshold, feeling like he was flying.

\---

John had always imagined that, if by some miracle this happened, it would be rough and fast. Instead here they were, and John was taking it softly, kissing over the fine lines around Bane’s starkly clear eyes, kitten-licking the shell of his ear, and nibbling and sucking on the rolls in Bane’s neck where John had him pressed against his headboard. Bane had laid him down as if he was a Disney princess, but John had been too impatient and tugged at Bane to join him. It took shedding the coat and the boots before Bane would comply, letting himself be pushed to sit down so John could sit astride his lap.

While John leaned in on those wide shoulders and got busy mapping his lips all over Bane’s real estate, Bane’s kissing was more hesitant. He returned kisses dryly, only opening his mouth when John cupped his face and laved wide, determined strokes of his tongue over his lips, pressing inside aggressively.

Strong hands slid down the center of his back to the curve of John’s ass, but not insistently so, and after a quick, almost dainty squeeze, moved to grip his thighs. John spread them a little further in approval. “A leg man, huh?” he breathed into Bane’s ear, licking the smooth edge of it.

Bane gave a noncommittal grunt. The hands stayed insistent on his legs.

“Well, I tell you what I like. When you come into the gym in that tight black t-shirt, my day is made.”

“It is?” Bane sounded like an academic discovering an interesting footnote.

John yanked at the fabric of his shirt Bane and Bane obligingly lifted his arms to free it.Tossing the shirt aside, John stared. He wanted to fall headfirst into that glorious chest. Grinding his hard cock into Bane’s thigh he quickly dipped his head and suckled at one of the rose-pink nipples. Bane’s chest reverberated with a pleased grunt. John was a little in awe, the mixture of soft and hard, the taste of sweat, and the gentle brush of fingertips against his brow. Moving his lips to the center of Bane’s chest he mouthed wet kisses down the middle, his cheeks brushing along the pillowy heft of Bane’s pecs.

Pushing a hand against Bane’s zipper he resolved to satisfy a year’s worth of curiosity. “Let me see it, Bane.”

Bane scoffed at the order, but obligingly hooked his thumbs over his waist belt and pushed the zip tag in John’s face. Who grabbed it with his teeth and tugged it downwards, his eyes holding Bane’s look of challenge.

It was murder on his teeth, because even with his legs splayed open under John’s weight, Bane was taking up considerable space. He smelt amazing, sweaty and male, and his cock clearly wanted out. John spat out the tab once he’d pulled it down a few inches, as it rapidly became apparent that more dexterity would be needed. Using his hands, he wrangled Bane’s bulge free from his cargo pants. Throwing his wig over his shoulder, John’s mouth went dry as he traced its girth through the damp fabric.

John’s silence was concerning, apparently, because Bane sounded worried when he asked. “Is there a problem?”

A problem? His inner size queen was doing cartwheels. Pressing against the Under Armor logo was a thick, uncut head. John released it from its Lycra prison. It obligingly leaped into his grasp. John needed both hands to get the full length out of the underwear. Bane was enormous, and John stroked him with admiration, tracing a vein down to the base. Turned out that Bane shaved closely everywhere.

“Carrying a concealed weapon is illegal in Gotham City, Bane. I might have to book you.”

Bane made an amused sound and skittered his fingers up John’s arms to knead at the meat of his biceps. Carefully rolling down the foreskin, John caught Bane’s eyes again as he pushed his tongue into the slit.

Mouth watering, John felt pools of spit at the edges of his lips, tasted the salty tang of precome mixing on his palate. Licking around the head he lapped at the beautiful dick, losing himself as his senses were clouded. He gave the balls a little appreciation with his hands while his mouth was occupied, lifting a hand off occasionally to scoop his curls over his shoulder.

Lighting hadn’t been a major concern in John’s bedroom decor (coming far behind ‘no weird smells’ and adequate wardrobe space), but now he regretted not having the spotlight Bane’s cock deserved. It was growing red, and after a few minutes of John’s hard work seemed to be flushing a pretty shade that reminded him of Revlon’s Cha Cha Cherry lipstick.

John was someone who had once seriously considered ordering a dildo advertised with the tagline, “This thing will damage you.” He never quite fulfilled his most extreme size queen aspirations, though he dutifully kept tabs on Gotham’s dick supply via Grindr. In his experience, big cocks all too often made men lazy. But while Bane was surprisingly willing to let John take the lead, all of his actions were considered. Tender, even.

Noticing this caused a little ripple of anxiety through John’s system. He pulled off, his lips wet and swollen. “You can fuck my face.”

Bane harrumphed loudly in reply. It made John angry. The fuck did Bane think of him, that he was prissy and fragile just because he was in a dress? Robin John Blake had spent years ensuring that he would never, ever be breakable.

“Go on,” he said, forcing his throat open as he made a fist with one hand to stop his gag reflex. It was a trick he’d picked up in his misspent youth. Diving back on, he angled his head at a truly uncomfortable angle to try and encourage Bane to grab the back of his neck.

Instead Bane placed two hands on the sides of John’s face with such meticulous gentleness it was like being enveloped in a warm steam cloud. Then Bane slowly pushed his thumbs on John’s cheekbones up, up, until John’s lips were straining at the head.

“From the side.”

It was unmistakably an order. John’s body reacted before his brain did. Swiveling his torso around as he placed his knees either side of one of Bane’s calves, John let his shoulder blades slip back down his back as if he was Downward Facing Dogging at the end of a workout. His head bobbed automatically, the new position opening his throat easily, and let Bane’s length slip down beyond his palate.

Bane held Angela out of his eyes as he got into a rhythm. His salivary glands went into overdrive, letting him take another inch in, though there was no way he was getting all of that mass between his lips this was enough, somehow; the steel of muscle under the silky skin, the thrum of Bane’s heartbeat under his tongue, the gentle pressure of thick arms guiding him up and down with the regularity of hydraulics.

“Enough.”

Bane hung the single word in the air like a neon sign. John pulled off and eased his shoulders back into Bane’s lap as directed to watch Bane take over, his own t-shirt back in his hands as he stroked himself, eyes boring into John’s. When Bane came his face barely changed from his usual determined expression, though in the dim light of his bedroom John thought he could make out a softening in the lines on his brow and a split-second tremor in his lowered eyelids.

The t-shirt took the brunt of his release, and John felt momentarily jealous. It psyched him up enough to reseat himself on Bane’s thigh and kiss him again.

With all the wriggling John had been doing, straddling a slab of leg as solid as oak, his dress had crept up well over his hips. Slipping a hand down he squeezed his dick, compressed under the iron hold of 15 denier nylon/elastane blend. He was intolerably hot and hard. Sweat prickled on his scalp and he felt greedy. The words fell out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about them.

"I respect your work ethic. I respect your strength. And I want to titty fuck you."

Bane frowned for a moment, then his face smoothed out with calm. "Proceed."

"For real?"

"If you believe yourself capable of it."

John had worked for years to have faith in his capabilities. Grappling with Bane’s chest, his confidence levels were at record highs. Working more spit into his mouth, he licked a broad stripe down Bane’s sternum. Lube would be better, but his palms were slick enough with sweat.

Hiking up his dress a little further, John pressed his knees up on Bane’s hips. Bane got with the program quickly and curled his arms around John’s frame. There was about enough space to give John’s hips leverage, at the same time as it pressed Bane’s ample bosom forward so pleasantly. Rolling his tights down to his knees, he grabbed his dick at the base. He’d not bothered to tuck, but his business had still been crammed under control top hosiery.

Stroking himself, John’s eyes darted from his hard-on to Bane’s gleaming chest to his open, unguarded expression. At the back of his mind he was waiting for a rejection, even now. Instead Bane moved one hand to John’s sacrum for balance and lifted the other to his mouth, licked it, and gently grasped John’s length. Held in those huge hands, John let himself be guided forward, hips canting.

Sliding his dick along the narrow valley of Bane’s pale chest was the best kind of agony, not quite enough but all too much. He bent down to kiss the top of Bane’s head. Resting his fingertips on Bane’s shoulders he wiggled his hips just far enough to gauge the diameter he was working with and to go breathless at the sensation.

He could feel the heat of Bane’s breath on his skin as he began to thrust in short, sharp jabs upwards. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the soft clasp around his cock, the drag catching him on the downward slide, and the increasing friction between as the smooth moisture dried out. It was fiery and rough, coursing through his system from his spine to his toes to the desperate grasp he had on Bane’s shoulders. Opening his eyes at the shock of orgasm, John moaned helplessly as he came all over that beautiful, broad chest.

All of a sudden his legs didn’t work, as John forgot he had his tights bound around his thighs and fell face-first on top of the bedspread. He was too dazed to do anything but huff air. Then his legs were being rearranged. John inhaled a ragged breath as the laddered mess of his tights were rolled off and his dress was carefully tugged back down. He felt a bit like a ragdoll, boneless and inelegant, but doted on.

Panting, John pulled his head away and rolled his head to one side. Bane was folded on to his side, rubbing John’s back through the lycra, moving his hand back up to trace the curve of John’s face then lingering over the edge of his collarbone. He was a glorious mess, his chest pink and come-streaked, shoulders dotted with the half-moon indents of John’s nails. His breathing was heavy, like John’s, but even.

It was all unbearably peaceful.

John spoke up.

“I'm not a damsel in distress. You don’t have to treat me so delicate.”

“Why not? You're beautiful.”

John squirmed at Bane’s matter-of-fact tone. He usually kept his inner girl in a very small compartment. She didn't get out much, and she’d already had too much attention this night. But Bane's fingers stroking his breastbone, she was finding that very persuasive. Little firecrackers were going off in the darker chambers of his heart, and he could swear that his eyelashes curled up on their own accord.

It would have been easy to fall asleep like this. Bane was so warm, and John felt the golden glow of post-sex exhaustion beginning to calm down his mind.

But there were rules that had to be followed. Strict safety guidelines that John had established over the years. Guy put on a dress and some heels, other guys got weird about it. Like those assholes outside the bar, or sometimes they held it back until a few minutes after they’ve come down your throat. Over the years, in and out of drag, John had learned self-preservation as well as wig handling.

He pulled away from Bane’s hands and headed for the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet seat he carefully took Angela off, eyes closed to avoiding trapping himself in the mirror’s reflection. Slowly he stripped off the remnants of his outfit and climbed in the shower. The water was cold and made his sensitized skin ache like a bruise.

John wanted to do some yoga. He wanted a punching bag to beat up. He wanted, from that soft place inside his rib cage, to curl up with Bane and sleep, and then go out for buckwheat pancakes at that bourgie cafe that had opened down the block.

The walls of John’s apartment were about as sturdy as cardboard. John leaned against the door, hoping to make out some sounds from his bedroom. He’d come all over the guy ten minutes ago, and he was still trying to work out what Bane was thinking.

Holding himself like he was about to walk into a boxing ring, John opened the door. Bane was sitting on the bed, carefully wiping himself clean with Kleenex.

“Sorry, I grabbed first shower. It’s free now if you want,” John kept his voice as calm as possible. He used to get drunk and let his tongue loose, blab away at one night stands and yell down phone lines to ex-boyfriends. It had caused a lot of drama. He didn’t want any drama between them now.

“Thank you.” Bane’s tone was unreadable. He tossed the tissues into the waste basket and rose. John noticed that Bane’s boots were back on, and he kept his eyes locked on them as Bane walked towards the door and stood in front of John.

Two fingers touched John’s chin and gently lifted his head to face Bane’s stare. “Would you prefer for me to leave?”

John swallowed. He shook his head slightly. Then shrugged and looked away. Rasping, he replied. “I’m not going to tell anyone, if you’re worried. I won’t make it weird for you, at the gym, with your guys.”

Bane took a step back.

“I was not worried. About them.”

“Then don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’ve done stranger shit than this before.”

That was not a million miles from the truth, but John could hear the false bravado ringing in his voice. Bane frowned and picked up his coat. John could hear the keys to his bike jingle in the pocket. He wondered for a moment what it would be like to wear that coat, whether he’d feel invincible.

“I will see you, I’m sure.” And Bane was gone. John waited until his front door closed to breathe again.

John curled up on his wrecked bedding and, out of habit, checked his heart rate against the clock on the wall. Thinking about nothing more than the seconds passing, he waited to fall asleep.

\---

 

The weekend passed, the jack o'lanterns and the skulls and the spider webs got bundled up and divided between Helena’s school supplies stash and the dumpster. Some of the rubber bats stuck around, one ending up on Bruce’s office door.

Bane didn’t show up for practice for a couple of days. More accurately, he didn’t show up when John did. Admittedly there was nothing so strange about that - his team’s training schedule was as complex and impenetrable as the Voynich manuscript - but there was nothing in it to stoke the fading warmth of John’s memories.

Thursday evening was John’s usual slot for leg day. It was the usual quad-centric festival of joylessness and despair, times ten, and he was huffing away at some squats trying, and failing, to tune into the mindfulness podcast in his earbuds. Suddenly Colin appeared waving frantically in front of him, with a nervous smile half-sitting on his face. John racked his barbell and de-earbudded.

“What’s up?”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Colin, right now? What is it..?”

John trailed off as he turned and saw Bane, arms crossed, standing just outside the weight room, looking in at them. Anatoli was next to him, mirroring his posture, looking serious as death.

“Col, what on earth is going on?”

Colin flushed and began to mumble an explanation as Bane stepped in, the Russian following him. It turned out Colin had challenged Anatoli to a fight. Anatoli had brushed him off, telling him to go play with the other kids, and Colin had gotten upset and persisted. John felt stunned, wondering what the hell Colin had been thinking - Anatoli was the biggest fighter there and currently top of Gotham’s UFC rankings - and then wondered if Damian’s continual needling at Colin for being so meek was behind this. He spotted Damian leaning against the far wall, smirking, and resolved to wring his neck.

Bane had stepped in when Colin had gone over to Anatoli and thrown a punch out of nowhere. “I told Mr. Wilkes that he could go a round with Tolya, but first he must have his mentor earn him the right to challenge.”

John felt like he had taken crazy pills. He waited for someone to laugh. Anatoli was built like a tank. Except he could probably win against a tank.

Damien snickered.

“And if you beat Tolya, we will have a match with Mr. Wilkes.”

Anatoli had on his standard brick-like facial expression. Colin stood behind John, saying something about how John didn’t have to do anything, that he was sorry.

Opening his mouth to say hell to the no, that everyone in the room needed a time out and a cookie, John caught Bane’s eyes. It didn’t matter what everyone else thought. But this might be the only interaction they would have for weeks.

John knew that Bane expected him to decline. He was using John as a way to defuse the situation gracefully

Nuts to that. “Sure thing. See you in the ring.”

“John - ” He ignored Colin’s pleading tone and strode out the door in front of them.

\---

Standing in the corner of the wrestling ring, John stuck his mouth guard in and rolled his shoulders. He was aware of the spectators. Katana, Damian, and Colin were on one side, while Barsad eyed him up from another. Bane stood outside of Anatoli’s corner. His face was unreadable.

Looming over him like a Soviet behemoth, Anatoli stood poised at the other side of the ring. John looked over at the kids and threw them a smile. Katana smiled back and punched the air with her fist. “Go for it, John!”

Damian piped up, “Knock him on his ass, Blake,” and Katana turned her punch into his shoulder. Colin mouthed to him, _I’m sorry_.

Out of nowhere, Floyd jumped into the ring. “Think this little match deserves a world class referee. Let me offer my services.”

  
John had time to breathe in and notice Katana begin to film them on her phone. Then Floyd ordered them to the center of the ring and there was nothing to do but keep his ass out of a sling.

Anatoli was seven feet tall and incredibly agile for a guy his size. John ducked from his first volley of punches and then back flipped to avoid a low kick. For the first few moments, all his moves were evasive. Sliding away from an immense fist he caught a glancing blow from Anatoli’s left leg, which kicked back and laid John out flat. Springing up he zig-zagged across the ring. Suddenly his leg wouldn’t follow him, as it was encased in an iron grip, and John had a split second to go with the propulsion of being swung from a seven foot height. Twisting, he pulled an old wrestling move he’d seen on TV and curled his free leg around Anatoli’s shoulder.

In the distance he could hear a gasp.

The move brought him some time, approximately 0.84th of a second, before Anatoli regrouped and laid a punch on his back. It didn’t have anything like his maximum power behind it, but it still made John lose his grip and briefly wonder if his internal organs had shot out his ears. Falling to his feet, John stayed hunched down and scuttled through Anatoli’s knees. Rolling to his back he put all of his strength into a kick right into the seat of his pants.

This pushed the Russian forward a fraction of an inch, out of shock more than propulsion. John leapt to his feet and aimed for the far corner of the ring. He evaded a lunge with a forward roll, and ended with his back on the ropes. There was a roar of approval from the kid’s side. John blocked it out, his focus on shifting speedily between oncoming blows. When Anatoli reared back for a roundhouse kick, he hit the floor again. But when he rose up this time, it was over - arms held him tight and his whole body smacked the canvas, John turning his face in time to avoid a broken nose. Held tight, he let himself relax as Floyd counted him out.

It would have been nice to lie there forever. But he was quickly released, and someone tapped him on the back. “Good fight.” said Anatoli, who didn’t appear to have broken a sweat.

Floyd extended a hand. John ignored it and jumped up then, ignoring the aches that were beginning to penetrate the adrenaline, did a backflip. The crowd - well, Katana and Colin - went wild. Floyd clapped slowly. “You lasted over two minutes. That’s one minute fifty longer than I’d predicted. Nice work, Blake.”

John said “Thanks, and screw you too, Lawton.”

Keeping a smile on his face, John climbed over the ropes and thanked Barsad for the towel he offered him. Barsad nodded and said, “You did some good work in there.”

John turned away before Barsad finished off his review with the usual snark, and nearly walked into Colin. “John!”

“Hey Col, sorry for not winning for ya.”

 

“That’s not what I - ”

 

Pulling another evasive maneuver, he gave Colin a hearty pat on the back and made for the exit.

 

John knew what was up in situations like this. He would go home, do some yoga, jerk off in the shower, and eat a proper dinner. One with vegetables and grains and everything.

Then he caught a glimpse of Bane getting into the elevator at the end of the hallway and before he knew it, he was running down and pushing through the closing doors. Reason and calm had been left behind and John was thirteen again, angry at being the smallest kid in the fight.

He barreled right into Bane. Slamming his fists into his chest, John snapped “You liked it? Watching me fall down?”

His stomach lurched with adrenaline as Bane hit the Emergency Stop button. The metal wall of the elevator was cool against John's face. Bane's hands had him pressed there tightly. It was the most calm he'd felt all day. Bane's lips were on the nape of his neck, his hairline, the shell of his ear.

Then the grip on his wrists loosened and Bane spoke.

"You are trying to goad me. I do not appreciate that."

John spun around and pushed back into Bane. They were both hard. "You sure about that?"

"What do you want?"

"For you to fuck me with that big dick of yours. You want me to dress up pretty, look like a girl for you? That make it easier to throw me around?"

“Is that what you want?” Bane leaned his forehead against John’s. “Or merely what you expect?”

“I thought you would fuck like you fight.”

“Are you used to being damaged by your partners?”

John pushed back, raising his voice. “Calling me a slut?”

“No. But I can smell the fear on you. And you like anger. You feel safe with it. Now, you pick a fight when I am touching you like this. We can copulate in many ways.” Bane’s grip on John’s shoulders tightened. “But you won't make me hurt you because you think that's what you deserve.”

“I don’t - ” John suddenly felt all his energy drain out of him. The need to battle had disappeared. He wanted different words, ones that could explain himself to Bane, but he couldn’t find any. He closed his mouth and slumped against the wall. Bane let go of him.

“You are not attractive when you let your anger control you.”

John didn’t say anything. Bane pressed the open door button and walked out.

\---

Chamomile tea was disgusting. He didn’t care what Selina said, John thought as he poured it down the sink, nothing that tasted like rancid lawn clippings was going to calm him down.

Usually when John couldn’t relax he’d jerk off. But jerking off meant thinking of Bane. And that stung. But maybe he needed it to hurt, to get through it. Flopping down on his bed he wriggled his jeans down and palmed his junk, trying to think sexy non-Bane thoughts.

Fifteen seconds later he gave up and concentrated on how Bane had pushed him around so easily in the elevator. Reaching for the new bottle of lube he’d picked up in an optimistic post-Halloween mood, he slicked up his fingers and lifted his hips up, rubbing that taut length of flesh behind his balls, working his other hand over his dick. Jiggling his legs open farther in the tight denim he contracted his stomach muscles as his fingers pushed inside.

Blood beat furiously through his veins. His body clenched like a fist ready for something to punch.

It hurt. It had to hurt. John was less interested in getting his dick hard and more in working himself back down to that raw state he’d been reduced to by Bane’s words. If he could unknot what had happened, why he’d felt so naked, why what Bane had said had felt so true, he could rebuild.

There was something Bruce had said to John, over and over, when he first started training at the Batcave. “Work out where the pain is.”

John initially took it to mean figuring out where to hit the other guy and make him really feel it, but after a few practice fights lead to tears and bloodshed Bruce cornered him and explained further. He was meant to work out where his own pain was coming from. That wasn’t always a pulled muscle or the impact of a blow, it was whatever drove him to punch someone before they asked too many questions. Work out where the pain is, follow it home, and face it, or you’ll never achieve control.

Control was the opposite of coming all over the tits of your longstanding crush while wearing a wig and heels. John ran his nails over his skin, reenacting the scratches he’d made all over Bane. Remembered how open Bane had been, a little unpracticed, but entirely generous.

He gave up on his dick and breathed out slowly. At some point he’d started panting. Drag had always made him feel fierce and brave, right up until the guy walked out of his room at the end of the night. Bane hadn’t walked out, even when he’d been given the chance. And all John wanted to do with this information was fight him. No wonder he’d been so easy for Bane to see through. No wonder it had hurt so much. He trusted Bane to tell the truth.

John got up from the bed. He was a GCPD detective. Of course he could track down a phone number.

\---

The dial tone seemed to stretch for days. “Yes.”

“It’s me. Are you free to talk?”

There was enough silence for John to long for the dial tone again, and then he heard “Yes.”

“I was thinking, about what you said. You were hard on me today. But fair.”

Bane made one of his rumbling, considering sounds down the line, then said “I was. But I did not expect you to think I wanted to see you hurt.”

“You thought I’d turn down the fight?”

“No. I knew you would cope. You are a more graceful fighter than any others I have seen. It was good for Toyla to experience such agility. And for Mr. Wilkes to see how his mentor dealt with a challenge.”

“I couldn’t let Colin feel humiliated. He’s got his own stuff to work out.”

“He has the potential to be a very good fighter. And he is right to look up to you.”

“I wouldn’t say that,”

“All of the younger fighters do, John. It should be something you take pride in.”

John laughed dryly. “I don’t know about pride. Getting along with teenagers isn’t that difficult. Not when you give them things to hit.”

Bane said “I am accused of pride - of lacking humility - rather often. I thought that might have been why the evening ended as it did. I wondered what you expected of me.”

“It’s not that I’m ashamed of what we did. I’m not, it was awesome. It’s just hard for me to understand what you could want from me.”

“There are not many people I find to be compatible both sexually and intellectually. I had thought that you might be one.”

“Why on Halloween, though?”

“You never expressed an interest before. I never witnessed you be anything other than self-possessed. I was always aware of you.”

John chewed that one over. “So it wasn’t the heels?”

“They were, perhaps, an additional consideration.”

 _I knew it_ , John thought. They didn’t call them fuck-me pumps for nothing.

“And without them? With no dress up?”

“You are you, whatever you are wearing. That is enough for me, if you are willing.”

“I am. Willing.”

Bane was quiet. John closed his eyes and waited. “Would you like me to come over?”

“Now. If you can. Can you?”

He could hear Bane’s breathing over the phone. “Twenty minutes.”

\---

It took him seventeen.

Forty seconds after Bane walked through his door, John’s back hit the wall. He pushed back into the clasp of Bane’s arms and kissed him hard. John felt dizzy with need, wanted to press so hard that friction burnt off their clothes, that the sex would be instant. He’d told Bane he could do anything, or Bane had said it to him, John wasn’t sure who spoke but it was all on the table, everything was allowed, and everything was welcome.

Bane’s mouth was still clumsy at kissing, but this time he was more assertive. Both of them were wilder with it, now with full permission to lick and bite at each other, all messy and wet. John hadn’t even bothered to zip up his jeans, which probably saved them from being ripped straight off his body. Bane hoisted John’s knees up into his armpits and the rough leather of his jacket rubbed hard on John’s inner thighs. Bane’s hands were on his ass and John banged his head against the wall and yelped in sheer relief. He could feel spit pooling in the corners of his mouth from their frantic kisses.

“You - are prepared?” Bane looked shocked, his finger slipping inside of John, inquisitive and deliciously rough.

“Before I called, I was jerking off. Trying to do it without thinking of you. Unh!”

He bit into Bane’s meaty neck when his fingers curled deeper. Bane whispered in his ear, “Could you?”

“Of course I couldn’t, smartass. I wanted this, your hands, your size.”

“You will have it.”

Bane loomed over where John was caught up between the nest of Bane’s arms and the wall. Somehow he seemed even bigger, as if he had been keeping something in reserve all this time. It occurred to John that Bane could transform into a Mack truck, like Optimus Prime, and he wouldn’t be surprised at all. He let go of where he was gripping Bane’s collar with white knuckles and scrabbled for the zip of his pants. Though the press of Bane’s fingers was affecting John’s motor skills, it wasn’t difficult to locate, pushed out of shape by one of the most enormous erections it had been John’s honor to encounter.

“Let me get my hands on it,” John ordered, though it came out of his mouth hitched and breathless.

Bane wrenched John’s legs open wider and pushed forward into his grip. Holding Bane’s cock again, blood-hot and hard, John felt a tenderness so sudden it was like an electric shock. It was followed by a moment of clarity. “I think we’re going to need more lube.”

Kissing his temple, Bane said “My left pocket.”

“Always prepared, huh?”

“It is key to any successful strategy.”

Bane breathed hard and leaned in as John slicked him up. Their chests were pressed together, heads on each other shoulders, and it was awkward as hell but stopping would be worse.

Turning his head to the side of John’s neck, Bane said “Count with me. One, two,”

John was panting hard. “Two, three, _now_.”

Bane thrust into him. The force dragged John a foot up the wall and his right leg kicked out wide, Bane grappling it back into place.

Bane felt massive inside him. It didn’t burn so much as John’s nerves had anticipated, instead he felt full, realigned, like a deep itch was finally getting scratched. Then Bane pulled out and pushed in to the hilt, and then it burned.

It burned so beautifully.

With the anger out of his system John felt lighter and more open. He felt new. Peeling open his eyes, he managed a woozy smile in response to Bane’s concerned look. “Keep going.”

So instructed, Bane tightened his hold and pushed up into John as if he was aiming to embed him in the wall. John held on for dear life and let himself take, the brutal rhythm embedding in his heart, drowning out thought. His back was getting rubbed raw and his skull glowed with a dull pain from repeated impact, but the pure pleasure spreading through his guts like liquid light was all-consuming. Bane was grunting with exertion, and John could feel the growl of Bane’s chest in his own.

Clenching his thighs a little tighter, John writhed in Bane’s arms as the first flush of impact faded and he became more aware of just where this felt so good. It had been years since he’d come just from being fucked but all too soon he could feel his own cock, trapped between their bodies, informing him that if he could just get a little more pressure on that spot right there, right the hell now, then it was all over.

His back bowing with exertion, John ground down as Bane thrust up. He could feel a cramp developing in his left foot and there would be bruises up and down his back tomorrow, but all that mattered was reaching that pinpoint of satisfaction that lay somewhere between Bane’s cock, the skin of his balls, the knot of circuitry controlling his nervous system, and the smell of sweat in the air.

Drumming his fists on Bane’s chest, John spluttered. “Coming. Jesus _God_.”

For a second, John felt like he was dissolving. Bane held him in place. “Oh. Oh, yes.”

“Are you sufficiently- ”

John punched him in the arm. “I said ‘keep going’ once already.”

Bane’s tempo shifted, or John was just feeling time a little slower on the other side. He gave himself the indulgence of going lax and letting Bane hammer away. John concentrated on how their flesh felt where they were pressed together, how gloriously big Bane was, how sweet and small John felt around him.

“John!”

Bane’s orgasm was sudden, an interruption in John’s hazy reverie. He got the pleasure of Bane’s expression, a flash of tension snapping into wonder, then release. John cupped Bane’s face and felt his hot breath beat on his skin.

John whimpered when Bane withdrew, clutching on to his shoulder. “Not yet, I - ”

Bane slipped a finger back in, filling him up again. John sighed with contentment.

“Ask me again. The same thing you did last time.”

He nuzzled against John’s hair. “Do you wish me to stay?”

“Yes. All night.”

_Postscript_

John liked to cook for Bane when he came around, which is to say he liked to take the Thai food out of the containers on to plates and give himself the bigger share of khao pad goong. He liked fussing around getting the wine from the fridge and sticking flowers in a vase, because Bane enjoyed both wine and flowers, the big homo. This time he even remembered to wipe his hands on a dish towel and not his favorite GCPD t-shirt.

After they ate dinner Bane sat down on the couch, and John sat on Bane. They both unwound by watching the lights of Gotham through the window. Sometimes they would watch a football game together, or Bane came across a documentary about WWI that he’d somehow not yet seen, but tonight wasn’t for trench warfare or running plays out of the spread offense. John folded his knee into his chest and pointed his foot up towards the ceiling.

 

“You like them? There was a sale on downtown.”

Bane skimmed his fingers down John’s calf, careful not to snag the fishnet tights, and brushed the top of his pink suede heels.

“Very becoming.”

“Mmm,” John rocked on Bane’s lap, rubbing their faces together. “I thought they would look even better wrapped behind your neck.”

As Bane carried him to the bedroom, John filed away another important piece of advice he had for Colin. Never underestimate the importance of good accessories.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [khaleesian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/khaleesian/pseuds/khaleesian) for the beta work. Any existing errors are mine. 
> 
> For the curious, I put together a list of all the Bat 'verse characters I threw in over at [my livejournal](http://lousy-science.livejournal.com/57943.html).


End file.
